The Tolkien Course
by Sekushi-Chan
Summary: Damien Arrow, a young British college student, is aspiring to be an author, and gets ready to take a course on one of the most famous fantasy authors ever: Tolkien. The next morning, he wakes in a strange world that can only be a dream.... Or is it?


[Author's Note: If you happen to be a British college student and find major problems with my ideas of university life, I will let it be known that I am an American high-schooler, and was inspired to write about a character who goes to an English college when my elder sister went to (ta-da!) Newbold College in Binfield. If something REALLY bugs you, tell me in a kind e-mail or review, and I will find a way to remedy it.

Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings or any respective Tolkien characters, nor do I own Newbold College; Tolkien Enterprises owns the former, and the latter is owned by itself. I own Damien, Leslie, Aedre, and other as-yet unknown original characters.

Note: If you're wanting any clearer picture of what Damien might look like, his appearance was inspired by Tenkuu no Escaflowne's Allen Schezar, a very hot long-haired blonde (though Damien's hair is by no means THAT long. Google it, and enjoy the anime eye-candy!]

_A harsh wind swept the headland, scouring the dry grass that sought purchase in the hard-packed earth. It keened eerily as it drove swirls of dust and seed down to the fading road, and carried the faint scent of burning wood to the small village that overlooked the ocean, perched on the cliffs above a rock-strewn beach._

_Smoke plumed over the burning wreckage of a ship, sinking steadily into the reef as bright orange flames licked what wood was still dry. The unmistakable scent of burnt flesh mingled with the smell of explosive black powder, undoubtedly what had caused the fire in the first place._

_Clinging to a still-burning spar was a small figure. One slender arm grasped the piece of driftwood as the child wavered in and out of consciousness. He couldn't have been more than eight years old, with a shock of salt-soaked red hair that stood out against his pale skin._

_With a choking cry, he lost all thought, the last vestiges of strength wrested from him by fatigue and anguish._

_The spar bobbed on, an unwitting beacon to those who ventured out after the storm, and the saviour-_

"No, no, that's not right either!" exclaimed an extremely harried voice. "Why, God, why?" it moaned, as the speaker buried his face in his hands. Long blonde hair fell forward onto the keyboard, and was then pulled taut in an expression of 'righteous anger.' Dark blue eyes closed, and a slender finger reached up to press and hold the delete key. "All that work..." he lamented.

"It was only a few paragraphs," retorted a crisp female voice. "At your writing again, Damien?" she asked slyly, reaching out to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I know just how you feel. I went through those times, too, when I was writing fanfics. Those were the days..." She sighed wistfully, and gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. "You'll be fine. Come to dinner before it gets cold."

Glaring at his cousin, he got up from the desk with a groan. "Of course, Les," he said in his most blistering, teenage-boy tone. "Mother hen!" he added in a stage whisper, grinning impudently as he dodged her outraged slap and retreated from his cluttered bedroom.

The woman, Leslie, was his elder cousin. They shared an apartment in the busy little village of Binfield, England, where they attended Newbold College. He was a first year; she was a fourth year. She rented the apartment; he paid for the food. She cooked; he didn't clean. She worked at a high-end restaurant; he mucked about at home, attempting to write. She was a theology major, minoring in ancient Greek. He was an English major, minoring in cultural anthropology. She was down-to-earth, religious, and all-around good-girl. He lived in his own little world, was highly fantastical, and wouldn't give a fig over what was right or wrong, so long as it was poetic.

Despite the very obvious differences, they got along very well.

It was the end of the winter holidays, and Damien regretted the return of school. It wasn't as if he disliked college. It was just that he no longer would have long hours to spend in front of the computer, trying to write that best-selling fantasy novel.

When he expressed these regrets to Leslie, she just laughed. "Don't forget that you have your Tolkien course this term," she said, smiling slightly. "You'll like the professor. You had him for that other course, what was it, the Victorian course, from him."

He made a face and ran long fingers through his unruly hair. "Yes, yes, I know. It'll be good, I'm sure. Tolkien _is_ the best writer since Shakespeare. I read all his books in secondary." He sighed deeply. "They even did a decent job on those movies, though they're not anywhere near as good as the books were." His expression took on an oddly glowing cast as he began to rant about one of his favourite authors.

Les rolled her eyes, sorry now that she had mentioned anything. He could go on like that for ages. To forestall any imminent arguments, she shoved a plate of food under his nose. Being the typical university-aged boy, he immediately stopped talking and began eating.

After polishing off his third helping of unidentifiable "Leslie Casserole" he retreated to the study (leaving is ecstatic cousin to do the dishes) to dig out his battered copies of the Lord of the Rings series. The conversation at the start of dinner had inspired him to re-read the, even though he was quite sure he would be tired of them by the time the course was finished.

Cracking open his three-in-one book to "The Fellowship of the Ring," he began to read...

He read long into the night, until his eyes burned and his hands refused to turn the pages. Slipping down in his chair, he finally came to rest with his head pillowed on the open book, and slept.

He dreamt of little men running down wooded paths, and Leslie, all dressed in black, riding on a huge horse do deliver ice cream to a giant flaming eyeball. What do fiery eyeballs eat, anyhow? Then blue men came and abducted him in his spaceship, and set him down on a different planet where everything was green and wild. He tripped off a cliff, fell into a deep forest of fluorescent purple algae, and was then attacked by angry killer butterflies. Then he dreamed that his book ate him alive, and all the words got tangled in his hair.

He woke with a start, and looked around, bewildered. Tall trees waved overhead in a gentle breeze, and the singing of unfamiliar birds woke a twinge of fear. He found that his head was still pillowed on the large volume, and that he still wore the rumpled clothes of the day before, but something was not right. Tentatively, he reached out to touch a leaf, and drew back in surprise when he felt that it was real.

Where was he? Strange forests did not spring up out of nowhere, much less in the middle of a tiny apartment in England.

Or did they?

Blinking in the sunlight, Damien stood slowly. Had Leslie put a hallucinogen into that casserole? Or was he dreaming? He pinched himself, hard, and winced. Probably a drug-induced vision, then, he thought.

Brushing a strand of hair from his eyes, he tried to get a better grasp on his surroundings. Hallucination or not, it would probably do best to figure out precisely what was going on. He thought back to his days in Pathfinders, wondering if he would be able to remember anything from the orientation honor. Moss grew on the south side of trees, right?

Unfortunately, knowing where the cardinal points were would not help him in a completely unknown forest. He had no idea which direction it went, or if it were only a tiny grove. For all he knew, he was in a climate-controlled bubble on the Antarctic continent.

My best bet would be to head in my favourite direction. Not that the Gods probably care which my favourite direction is. But, if I'm going to wander around lost, it'd better be on a route that I'll be happy with, he thought.

With that, he set off west, checking for all the directional signs he could remember. "There was something to do with shrubs," he muttered aloud. "No, that's Monty Python. I AM going crazy."

On a whim, he began singing. "Brave, brave Sir Robin, he bravely ran away..." He trailed off, feeling rather silly, and then noticed something else. The trees were beginning to thin out. It was lighter, and he could almost see the glittering light of far away water. Though, it was more likely to be a mirage made by his drug-imbued mind.

The nineteen-year-old was ecstatic. Maybe he had been following the right signs! Or maybe he was just lucky. That was more likely. He began running, crashing through the brush like a mad beast. It was an opening! He pushed aside a hanging branch, and stopped short, gaping.

Plains. Open grassland, covered in low hills and the occasional rock. He did a double take, and looked back over his shoulder at the dense forest. "What the hell?" he said, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. "Where the hell am I?"

He stepped out of the forest, and shaded his eyes against the morning sun. The hillocks dotting the landscape blocked any immediate view, though what was seen was surely impressive. Mountains were in the far distance, and a slightly larger hill stood out in front of them.

Spotting a large rock, he sprinted over to it, oddly afraid that if he was spotted, he would be very, very dead- very, very quickly. Hauling his lanky frame onto the rock with a grunt, he looked out over the plains and saw...nothing.

However, he was beginning to think that this was all a lot more real than a hallucination. The heat of the sun, the growling of his belly, the strange landscape. That and the fact that other than the abrupt forest-to-plain change, nothing had altered as they usually did. (Not that he knew from experience what the effects of hallucinogens were, of course.)

No, it was all too real. It even smelled real.

Balling his hands into fists, he slammed them into the rock. It hurt, but it helped him some. Now he just needed something to whack his head on.

Standing up, he looked around one last time, to see if anything familiar in any way could be spotted. Nothing. Raising his arms to the sky, he screamed:

"WHERE THE FUCKING HELL AM I?"


End file.
